The Menial Games
by jamespotters
Summary: War. Terrible war. England burned to the ground – he has won. The world belongs to him now – to the solely Lord of magic – and to him alone. The nation he has divided in four estates; four districts, each separated by three sectors. To prevent a further rebellion, he created what would be later known as - The Menial Games.


**The Menial Games**

by jamespotters

* * *

_Prologue_

* * *

War. Terrible war.

England burned to the ground – _he_ _has won_. The world belongs to him now – to the solely Lord of magic – and to him alone. The nation he has divided in four estates; four districts, each separated by three sectors. On one side, the pure, the true, the eternal limpidness of wizards and witches and their remarkable abilities of witchcraft. On the other, the dirt, the filth, the liars, the thieves, creatures who deserved to die, to suffer for stealing and tainting the magic abilities of the worthy others, but to whom he showed mercy, oh, how kind, the Dark Lord. The last, the mingle, the eternal reminder of the connection between purity and scum.

To prevent a further rebellion, to cast the four districts in an eternal surrender, everlasting hunger, never ending woe, he created what would be later known as – The Menial Games, his greatest creation, as Lord Voldemort himself prefers to recall it.

* * *

_Chapter One_

* * *

Her fingers sweep the bed and find it empty – Petunia's gone.

The rain cracks the ceiling with easiness, plummeting in her crooked toes, curled up to meet her too used hunting shoes. Her fiery red hair is greasy and she knots it in a braid, much like every day – her last reaping will not be any different from her previous days in the Gryffindor District, Sector 2.

She dreamt of them, again. His grey eyes seem to follow her steps again and the emerald gaze catches hers and she's there again, reliving their loss. _They're gone._

The morning laziness disappears at the realization and her feet lead her to front porch. Only light drizzle drips now.

Her body's throbbing without touch. The black smoke fills her nostrils and her steps are caught in the heavy fog. She's screaming so loudly in her mind, feeling the word being carved a million times in her. Blood is dripping slowly. Nothing exists – everything is gone but the pain, oh the never ending pain. Perhaps it's too soon to think about it, at all. Death. It seems sweet under her tongue, a medicine for the constant reminder that they are gone. But these are only memories, she reminds herself. Today reserves for her more cruel paths.

She pours herself a cup of mint tea, the fresh leaves over the crafted towel covered table and she munches a piece of tesserae toast. She needs the energy. Tonight she will no longer be obtainable to the reaping – her time will have passed and so she has to hunt, to grant herself, her sister and her soon to-be walrus fiancé a proper celebration dinner, as good as it gets for them. She'll have to find a job as well – soon enough. She's young, but the District's life has created strains of effort in her face and lines of worry. Lily Evans is much too young to these dismays.

The stream halts and she steps forward, out of her house, toward the fence. The sky is exasperated, clear smoke clouds forming, twirls of black smolder creating a swirl. A few meters away from her house, without a sight of the often seen crowd of coalminers – it is reaping day after all, she repeats to herself – she takes a glance of the Seam, a scrawny field, and heads forward, her destination right ahead. She gawks the barrier. She waits a second for the sound of the fence's buzzing – the sign of electrification on – and she hears none of it and so she crawls underneath it and walks insides the woods of the District. Inside one of the trees, in an olden carved hole, she takes her wand and moves in the direction of their meeting spot. He's already there, black hair greasy, his back to her. _Severus._

"Hi", she greets him, taking a seat next to him. Severus Snape turns his gaze away from the forest beneath him – the rock has a somewhat extensive view of Sector 1 of the G District. _So close, but yet so far away. Would I be any different had I stayed in S2? Had I not transferred?,_ he thinks to himself. His contemplations are however interrupted by her sudden arrival and he feels himself smile when he finally takes a look at her. _I would never turn back down. Not after I've met her_. His best friend's hair is pulled up in a braid, dark red waves he knows and her almond shaped, thoughtful emerald eyes meet his black ones. He holds a bread in his hand and lifts it for her to have a glimpse of it.

"Look at what I got!", Severus tells her, beaming. She grins, taking it from him and smelling it. Although their world will crawl apart – they don't know it yet, and they won't for a few more hours – they are standing now, positively content with one another, their much wanted happiness forced to accompany them both one last time.

He has clear feelings of love for her.

She thinks she has too, but will change her opinion soon enough.

"Merlin, this is real! How did you get it?", she queries, eyebrows raised and hand still holding firmly to the rock as she sits. Her fingers are covered in grime and she cleans them in her dark trousers. He turns to her.

"Traded it for three of your squirrels, this morning. Vernon was taking clients, but I think he pitied me."

"I am quite amazed with him being capable of such feelings. I can't even remotely begin to imagine the scene. Was he delusional? Were _you, _now that I consider it? Are you sure it wasn't Petunia who slided it to you?"

"I think I can still distinguish apart your sister from her arrogant wimp. I don't think she has grown such a big moustache, these days."

Lily hits his arm, jokingly. "_Sev."_

He smiles. "Uh, I forgot. Happy Menial Games!"

"And may the Dark Lord be ever by your side!", she finishes, glossy words. Her interiors twirl. Her fingers find a string detached from her faded shirt. "Did you see her?", she probes. Her glance moves from her limbs to him, desperately trying to rescind that feeling of wariness, nipping her, distressing her small, built frame. He shakes his head. She sighs.

"Lily, she must have been inside, in the kitchens. She's fine. She's no longer attainable. She was a slip in thousands, just like _you _will be. You'll be all right. And so will Petunia". She doesn't reply. She cuts the bread in two and gives him his part. He accepts it, adding, "How many times are you registered?"

"Eighteen", Lily utters, returning then the question.

"Twelve." He seems almost ashamed. He shouldn't. He won't be picked – not today, not ever again.

"That's good", she responses, munching the bread slowly.

"I suppose." They stay quiet as they eat.

* * *

The hazy sunlight peeks through his window cracks. The blustery weather burbles outside, the soothing sound of hail growing. He's been awake for hours and has no force to stand up. His creamy black hair is covered in his right fingers as the left ones scrutinize his face, hazel distressing eyes shut, unable to glimpse to the surface – reality is not something he has grown to be attached to and he lives without the worries of a poor working family in Sectors 2 from his own and other districts.

He's privileged and envied. He's not gruesome, but some claim so; in fact he has thin, somewhat handsome features, a long nose and full lips and a reputation of a sported and adored personality in Sector 1, his father's influence as Mayor shadowing his doings, concealing his real beliefs, with his superficial arrogance and witty remarks adding up to a popular, tiredly energetic, Quidditch-obsessed teenage bloke.

General descriptions hardly define one – and opinions of others, so often mistaken by the simple first sights of things and absurd deceits, can hardly function as a true, only source of someone's form, deeds and judgment. Points of view are time and again of an unscaled number, forming recollections of one as false memories, poisoning opinions and quite remarkably – but not so extraordinary that it cannot be believed – such sentiments are engorged and create instead a greater influence to a personality who had nothing, who possessed nothing of overwhelming instance and whom, without these cold whispers and dark undertones, could have passed as – almost – common.

James Potter was a target – although not so innocent in behavior as he was adept of mischief and entertaining activities which had the only objective of amusing his friends and himself – of these incoherencies and his personality was, therefore, frequently mistaken for an arrogant, bullying, proud one. As some might guess, Sector 1 was full of these presumptuousness and although James would very much prefer to be known as his true self – a quick tempered, courageous, impulsive eighteen-year old, facing what was his first and thankly, his last reaping – the society he lived in was one of first impressions, which caused an everlasting impact and were able to distress reputations. He, on the other hand, couldn't care less.

"Blimey, what's it with you today?", a voice enquiries, interrupting his thoughts. He feels a heavy weight sitting in his chest and groans.

"Get. Off. Me.", James states, pushing the also dark-haired boy, hair lustrous and gleaming falling into his shoulders, off his panting torso.

"Can't handle my strong built now, can you? Mother would be satisfied", he remarks, greys eyes narrowed, "It sure wouldn't serve you right in the Games were you chosen to enter it."

"Don't talk about it as if it is some trivial business", James hisses, "People die in there. Not because they want to, but because they are chosen to, randomly and forced to participate in these bloody, sickening competitions. Besides, you'll never know if the luck will come down to you."

"Merlin. You _are_ in a great mood today."

"Padfoot, aren't you even remotely worried about the reaping?", James questions, pulling himself up with the force of his narrow arms. The room feels warm despite the revolted weather and his upgrading displease toward his best mate.

"No. The bloody bloke will change his mind eventually. It's ridiculous! After twenty years of only the Sectors 2 and 3 of each District sending tributes to the Games, why would he out of a sudden decide to add Sectors 1 to it?". Sirius Black throws his hands in the air, positively outraged. Looking however sharply to his eyes, a sentiment of worry and afraid comply, appearing only but slightly to an observant individual.

"It's not fair to us or them – especially them. They did exactly the same thing _we_ did. Why would they be punished and not us? I find it only but reasonable."

"Oh, I see", Sirius puts his hand in his chin, "Feeling suicidal today, are you?"

"Don't be preposterous", James retorts, trying to find his dark blue robes, "Where're Moony and Wormtail?", he gets a hold of it and puts it on. He looks at him.

"Dunno. Probably still at home. Although, Moony's mom went to the Justice Hall because of his furry little problem or whatever you call it, which incidentally landed him out of the Menial Games."

"At least one of us is safe", James mutters to himself. He stands up and pats Sirius's shoulder feeling guilty for having snapped at him.

"S'alright, Prongs", he assures him, grinning.

"Good."

* * *

"What did you get today?", Petunia questions her, Lily entering the house with a full bag. After Severus left to help his uncle at the apothecary, she stayed in the woods, hunting two ducks, five squirrels – with implausible skill as all spells went through its eyes – and recovering two pounds of strawberries and plants which she traded in The Hob, the District's Black Market.

She swings the bag over her head and empties it over the table. There's still the body of a duck and a pound of the red fruit the Mayor delights himself in, salt, soap, katniss routes and dandelions. Petunia grabs the duck and starts skinning it.

"Vernon will be dinning with us tonight. And so will Marge, I suppose", Lily doesn't respond, "Go clean yourself. The reaping's in an hour."

She washes her greasy hair until it's silky, cleans the muck from under her fingernails and, enrolled in a towel, walks to the bedroom the sisters share and sees a pretty green dress set for her. Lily smiles weakly – it was her mother's before she was executed along with her husband, for treason.

"It matches my eyes", she tells Petunia when she enters the kitchen. She's stirring a steaming pot and barely makes eye contact with her. The apron hides her pregnant slim figure and the orange dress she wears to match the pins she put in her head.

"I know", Petunia answers.

"It was mom's."

"I know", she repeats.

Petunia makes her fingers clean her streaming eyes and holds Lily for a moment, abandoning the boiling pot, twirls of white smoke enhancing the smell of food. They will save this meal for a few hours – when they're safe.

They eat the rest of the tesserae bread and three strawberries each. Petunia looks at the clock and grabs her little sister's hand, "It's time."

* * *

She goes there once a week and he likes to watch her hair linger a bit on the breeze and her tiny hand sweep it from her eyes. She has almond shaped eyes (what color he hasn't been able to notice yet, so _bloody far away_). Her walk is decisive and firm, earning one of his father smiles as soon as she knocks the door and gives him a pound of his greatest pleasure – strawberries.

James had tried them before – the sweet red taste had tasted him sour and the grains had tickled his throat; he hadn't been able to understand his father's fascination with it or why he had made sure it were delivered every day during the summer. Perhaps the redhead is the real cause of the issue, the catalyst of such faked passion, he thinks. He wouldn't be surprised. After all, he's father isn't exactly known for his fidelity.

He feels his fists clench at the thought. She's not his father's.

_ And not mine either._

He thinks he's terribly in love with her.

But then again, not yet.

* * *

She's thirteen at best and it's not fair.

She doesn't have siblings and her father will be alone with her death and no one is courageous enough to take her place, even though this used to be District of former Gryffindors, the brave, the bold. With the war, the values were lost. With the war, the only thing that survived was the willing to prosper, to _live_.

She takes her place in front of the crowd of the District, mingled sectors, divided by age and sex through thick ropes.

She doesn't seem frightened; she's from Sector 3 – Half-blood – and all her life she has had almost enough and she is yet to realize what the Games will do to her. Her dignity and pride are still intact as she walks with raised head and piercing eyes. Her name is Lysander May and she will never return to the District and father who raised her.

Lily watches the first female tribute ascend to the stage. She makes herself find Severus's gaze and smiles weakly. It falters her, the energy to pretend to be okay. He mouths something but she doesn't understand and doesn't try to.

She looks behind her and she watches her sister, a slight bump on her bailey already, her slick blonde hair tied to the back showing her pretty orange dress. She's surrounded by the Dursley's – Vernon has his arm around her waist, Marge flickers her eyes between the teenagers, scrutinizing every flaw – and Lily feels she'll be all right. Nothing will happen to her dear Petunia, enclosed in the almighty family of the Sector. She will never starve again.

Mary MacDonald smiles from the stage, surrounded by the Mayors of the three Sectors, her green bright curly hair contrasting with her flashy pink robes, ruffled edges and a thick layer of rosy makeup. Her white grin brightens her face; the crowd's murky expression lurks the reaping.

"And now, for the Sector 3's boy!", her hand dives the huge bowl retracting a slip rapidly, "Gideon Prewett!"

A second barely seems to pass when she screams the male tribute who will represent Sector 2, "Benjy Fenwick!"

Lily smiles at him, sadly. The fifteen year-old brunet scrunches between the crowd, his head held high as he walks up the stairs of his death. Mary MacDonald makes him shake Lysander's and Gideon's hands.

"Oh, how exciting! Let's now choose the female tribute for Sector 2, shall we?", she beams her way across a fourth bowl where she flicks her fingers for what feels like a hundred years. Suddenly her hand grabs a paper and walks calmly toward the center of the stage. She points her wand at her neck, uttering a small Sonorous and, opening the paper, yelps "Lily Evans!"

James grasps the crowd as an eighteen-year old redhead puts her shoulders in a correct position and makes her way to the stage. Her eyes are glistening with tears but she stands firmly next to her fellow Sector male tribute. Her hair is dark red and she doesn't fit it in the dark and screechy crowd of her Sector. _Not her._

After that, a blur of blonde hair passes James, as Emmeline Vance is chosen as half of the representation of Sector 1.

Mary is positively squealing as she reminds the population of the G District that only one more tribute – male this time – will have the unbelievable prospect of representing his District and possibly sacrificing himself for it. "Such an honor!" she assures them, clapping her hands. Sector 1 joins her and so does 3, even if reluctantly.

He feels his hands hold each other tight, praying somewhere for him no to be chosen. _Please, please, not me, please, please._

The escort of the G District's tributes strides one final time toward the giant transparent bowls. Somewhere among the papers, his name is written one time, only one – maybe he won't be chosen, maybe he'll survive his first and last reaping, perhaps he'll live a few more years and marry a pretty pureblood to satisfy his mother, be a Mayor like his father, live a complying life, a life oh so _not_ suited to him, to his mischief endeavoring attitude. He wouldn't be able to live on of these lives, he realizes, not entirely, and not happily. Somewhere between the six steps Mary takes and the slip she holds, her tongue forming a name, a name which will be soon forgotten, like so many dead others before it, he wishes he can be chosen, to die gloriously, like himself, dying for something he sees worthy. His home, his family seem reason enough to fight against Lord Voldemort's Games, even if by his rules.

But fate works in funny ways.

"Sirius Black!" he hears. James Potter feels his ribcage lower, almost hit the ground and he pants, he can't breathe and his hands are sweaty and he tries to find Padfoot, his best friend in the mob. His gaze locks with his grey one, finally realizing the words that Mary MacDonald slipped and the multitude murmurs about, dazed. He was chosen, he's going to die and James can't have that, he won't allow it. Sirius Black was once alone in his life – his family didn't share his and James's – as well as his friends Remus Lupin's and Peter Pettigrew's – opinions of pureblood and these – these mass slaughterers, disconcerting tournaments, sickening to the pit of his stomach. James took him and made him feels like one of the Potters, his family, much as if was his brother, of his blood, part of him, the Marauders and he won't been able to cope if he lets him walk toward what is certain death because no one survives the Menial Games without losing something beyond themselves and the life they leave behind for other to mourn. And so he hears himself cry,

"I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!"


End file.
